by Keith Nixon
Having just bought and sold property, Gray broadly knew the ins and outs of the tortuous process; strictly speaking, his high-street solicitor had dealt with the detail. Gray had just been the cash machine. Perhaps commercial deals were different.
The police had access to the Land Registry where all details on property transfers since 1993 were held. Gray entered the restaurant’s address and tapped the enter key.
His search revealed that only months ago it had indeed been purchased by Millstone Holdings. Prior to then it was owned by Enterprise Associated Partners. Gray moved over to a search engine. He entered “Millstone Holdings” and thumbed the enter key once more.
171,000 search results were returned. Gray scrolled through several pages. The few relevant links pointed to another official government body, Companies House, where trading information on commercial ventures was held. Like the Land Registry the police had full and free access to the data.
However, the information on Millstone Holdings was as deep as McGavin’s stew. No trading history, no assets or liabilities, and the single director was someone called Fallon based at an address in Guernsey. Gray returned to the search engine and entered the address. Millstone wasn’t the only business registered there. The search engine spewed out page after page of details. It appeared that Millstone was a shell company. Another search revealed Fallon was a London-based lawyer.
EAP was a different matter. There was over three decades of results. The business was wholly owned by Jake Armitage. Besides Jake, the other directors were his sons, Regan and Cameron.
Gray leaned back in his chair, not sure where to go next. Millstone seemed a dead end, its true ownership hidden away. Tomorrow he’d go to see the expert on property deals.
Jake.
Gray remembered his pasta. He skewered some with a fork and put it into his mouth. It was lukewarm but it would have to do. He switched his attention to the Sunset fire. The same search engine produced a raft of results. Gray flicked through the reports, not sure what he was looking for. He spotted an article by William Noble in the now-defunct Thanet Echo. It seemed like the newspaper still had a life in the virtual world. Gray clicked on it.
The article was written a few months after the blaze. It was the last edition put out by the Echo before it closed. The detail was a rehashing of the actual events followed by a summary of the following cases, including the injunction against the newspaper in a chronological order.
The guts of it was Noble’s eyewitness account of the fire itself. It seemed he’d arrived on the scene with the fire engines and detailed what had occurred thereafter. Noble had had the foresight to grab his camera too. Right at the end, Noble stated that Jake’s exoneration had resulted from someone admitting to setting the fire.
Larry Lost.
Apparently he’d thrown a cigarette end over the fence which had started the fire. An accident.
One photo embedded in the text had caught his eye. Gray scrolled back up until he found it. The image was of three people sitting side by side on the sea wall opposite the Sunset, their faces lit by the conflagration. Gray clicked so the photo was full screen. He recognised all three immediately.
Jeff Carslake was standing a few feet away from the couple who interested Gray most: Cameron Armitage with his arm around Rachel O’Shea.
Chapter 40
In the morning, Gray’s first port of call was the office of Tudor & Stratham, solicitors, who’d handled his house sale. They were based in what had been two large Victorian residences, now knocked through into one, located on the busy thoroughfare of Hawley Street in Margate near the law courts and the council offices. Gray pushed open the door and entered. Three people occupied four desks in the expansive reception area; only one looked up at Gray’s appearance. Recognition lit up her face. The woman was called Annie Cartwright, Gray remembered.
“Oh, hello Mr Gray, we haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Not since I completed on the flat purchase, no. This time I’m here on police business.” Now, the other two admin staff paid attention and took in Gray. Something more interesting than their paperwork.
“Of course. How can we help?” asked Annie.
“I’ve a question for Mister Stratham.” He was the conveyancer who’d handled the process. An overly bright, horribly efficient man who clearly didn’t have enough hours in the day to get everything on his to-do list done.
“I’ll go fetch him.” Cartwright moved out from behind her desk and climbed the nearby stairs. Within moments she was back. “Mister Stratham is free.”
Stratham himself was halfway down the stairs, paused in the descent, obvious in his concern, feet on adjacent steps. He was a man keen to please, always ready with a smile which was big on width though small in depth. “Annie said there was a problem Mr Gray?”
“There’s no problem, sir.” Stratham blinked; Gray hadn’t called him “sir” before. “I just want to benefit from your expertise.”
“In that case, come on up!” Stratham flashed his trademark beam, turned around, and trotted up the remaining steps.
Gray followed, albeit at a more considered pace. He found Stratham in a large office at the front of the building, with a view of the street and a multi-storey car park through expansive bay windows. The space felt cramped, though. Paperwork and filing cabinets everywhere saw to that.
“Take a seat.” Behind his desk, Stratham appeared comfortable and in control again after his earlier lack of equilibrium. “Can we get you a coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“So, how can I help?”
“I’m unable to go into details. I’m working on a case, and some information would possibly be useful.”
“Exciting,” said Stratham, leaning forward, elbows on the desktop, pupils glittering. “Ask away!”
“Some properties have changed hands recently, and I’d like to know a little more about them. Who owned them, who purchased them, and how much for.”
“Which properties?”
Gray told Stratham, who wrote the addresses down, frowning. He said, “We may have handled these transactions.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Probably not, all this sort of data is made publicly available anyway, though there may be some information I can’t pass on. Client confidentiality and all that.” Stratham grinned.
“I can always return with a warrant if we reach that point.”
Stratham coughed. “No, no I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Clearly Stratham was experiencing visions of uniformed police in his offices. “Can you give me a day or so to find out and get back to you?”
“That would be very helpful, thanks.” Gray handed over his business card. “You can call me on that number. My email address is on there also.”
Stratham showed Gray out. The only other time that had happened was when money changed hands, specifically from Gray to Stratham. The solicitor assured Gray he’d be able to help.
***
Twenty minutes later, Gray was in another reception area, this time the headquarters of Jake’s business, EAP, on Albion Street in Broadstairs. He was led through by an administrator to Jake’s office, an understated affair with good views over the sea. Jake indicated for Gray to take a space on a tan and red leather sofa, a Chesterfield if Gray knew his furniture. Jake opted for the matching armchair. Between them was a low table, a tall and slender silver pot, matching milk jug, and two china mugs.
“You appreciate your coffee, if I remember correctly,” said Jake.
“Yes.”
“Unfortunately there aren’t any roasters in Thanet, the nearest is in Canterbury. Ethiopian beans, supposedly from the very forest where coffee was first discovered.”
Jake poured some for Gray. It was earthy and deep. But it was still coffee.
“I expected a bigger operation,” said Gray. The building was a narrow five-floor terrace fronting the busy road right on the cliff top.
“I employ about fifty staff in all, acro
ss the pub and club. In this building we’ve got the finance and human resources departments, plus me. We don’t need sales or marketing people, really, for what we do. The flats, the cleaners, even the caravan park, are dealt with through agencies.”
“Everything you own is commercial property?”
“It’s a roughly equal mix of commercial and residential. Mixing up the revenue streams across market segments minimises the risk.”
“All under your company Enterprise Associated Partners?”
“Correct. Is that why you’re here? To ask me about my business? Rather than to say you’ve found Regan’s killer?”
“As soon as we’ve something to tell you we’ll do so.”
“It’s taking too long.”
“We’re doing everything we can, Jake.” Gray had another sip of the coffee, decided a change of tack was needed. “Who are the partners?”
Jake snorted. “There aren’t any. The problem when you’re starting out is you’re small. Everything is tough: keeping your costs low because it’s a volume market, getting a good price for what you sell and, even worse, gaining a credit rating. Cash — it’s like blood for a company. If it isn’t flowing right, you’ll soon be out of business. So, one trick is to make yourself appear bigger than you are. It’s all about front in the early days.”
“What about now?”
“I’m established,” shrugged Jake. “Roles are reversed. People come to me.”
“Like Millstone?”
Gray noted Jake took a moment to think, gaining time by having some coffee. “As I said, people come to me all the time.”
“What do you know about Millstone?”
“Only that they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Who did you meet with? To arrange everything.”
“Some lawyer called Fallon. Said he was Millstone’s representative. He didn’t even want to view the properties he bought, said that his people had already done their due diligence. He put an offer on the table, a very generous one, well above market rates, and I accepted. My solicitors handled the rest.”
“You know who’s in those properties now?”
“Of course. It’s Frank McGavin. What do I care? I’ve no emotional attachment to what’s basically bricks and mortar. You buy, you sell, make money along the way. That’s all.”
“It’s just that I hear Millstone is everywhere now, trying to pick up property. Seems like you have a competitor. And they happen to be associated with the biggest criminal around here.”
“So what? Competition comes and goes. McGavin simply leases the buildings, as far as I know. If he goes bust, it’s his loss.” Jake sighed, stood up, went to a cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened the doors, took out a bottle. He held it up to Gray. “Want one? It’s malt, of course.”
Gray would have expected nothing less. “On duty.”
Jake poured himself a couple of fingers worth into a glass and brought it over. He drank half. “McGavin wanted to be a business partner.” Jake stared into his glass for a moment — drained the whisky. “I refused to sell to him. It didn’t feel right. Once you start with people like that you’re never rid of them. Then Millstone came in and made an alternate, higher, bid. The timing was good, and it wasn’t McGavin.”
“Why sell now?”
“I’ve been thinking of retiring for some time. I’ve more money than I need, and I’m not enjoying it any more. I haven’t for quite a while. Millstone has shown an interest in Seagram’s as well. They made me an offer via Fallon. Not high enough, though. If they up it, I may just agree. Once I know what happened to Regan, and it’s been dealt with I’ll move out to my villa in Spain and never come back.”
“How about Cameron? Couldn’t he take over? He’s a director of your business.”
Jake laughed. “He’s no bloody use. Too busy with his holier-than-thou pursuits.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Some crap with the homeless. It doesn’t matter, he’s no entrepreneur anyway. The company would fold within a year if he got his hands on it. Better to sell, take the money, and stick it in the bank. At least the grandkids can have some of it, if that ever happens.”
“He’s still your son.”
“He’s nothing like me.”
“Does that matter?”
“I don’t know, Sol. Frankly, I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
“On that point, there’s been an accusation. About Regan.”
“He’s dead, who’d do that?”
“It has potential implications for the investigation.”
“I’m assuming I won’t like to hear this.”
“There’s a suggestion Regan used the fact he was your son to assault women.”
“That’s ridiculous,” cut in Jake. Gray noted it was a half-hearted response.
“And that you covered it up by paying the women off.”
Jake appeared ready to explode. His fingers gripped the arm of the chair. “My son is dead, and this is what you bring me?”
“We have to assess every potential line of enquiry.”
“I think you need to go, Sol.”
“Are you denying the accusation?”
“Get out.”
Gray stared at Jake for a moment before leaving.
***
Gray’s mobile rang as he was stepping out onto Albion Street. It was the solicitor, Stratham.
“That was fast,” said Gray.
“I ascertained that we didn’t handle the sale and purchase of the two properties you mentioned.”
“Is it a problem?”
“Not when I’m on the case, detective!” Stratham laughed. Gray didn’t. “Erm, anyway, it only took a few calls, and it happens that a good friend of mine was the conveyancer. I managed to get the details out of him, provided there will be total confidentiality?”
“I’m a policeman, Mr Stratham. It goes with the territory.”
“Of course, of course. Stupid of me. I’ve asked Annie to email you over the documents. They make interesting reading.”
Gray wasn’t so sure anything in the business of conveyancing could be classified as interesting, but he uttered positive noises before ringing off. By the time he opened up the app on his phone the email was there in his inbox. Stratham was nothing if not efficient. Gray found a bench round the corner, looking out to sea before he started reading.
Attached to the email were some fairly hefty documents — deeds, the search information, and a valuation document. The first wasn’t a great deal of use. They were handwritten and dated back more than a century and not easy to read on a small screen. Useful as a historical document, was all.
The valuation document provided the proposed worth of the properties. Approaching half a million pounds for each. Not much more than Gray had paid for his flat. He called the solicitor again.
“Thanks for the information. Just one question. Do you think he got a good deal?”
“Yes, very. The price was about a hundred thousand pounds more than the current market figure. On both properties.”
“Is that unusual?” asked Gray.
“The sale and purchase of a property is just a transaction, Sergeant Gray. What someone wants for it in terms of price and what someone else wishes to pay can be, and often are, completely disparate. This is where tension arises, of course. I’ll ask you a question, what does a glass of tap water cost in a café or pub?”
“Nothing.”
“So you wouldn’t pay for it?”
“Why would I? It’s freely available.”
“And if you were in the middle of a desert, no water around you for miles and dying of thirst? What would you pay for that same glass of water now?”
“Probably everything I had.”
“And that’s exactly my point. Value depends upon context. It depends upon supply and demand. A glut of properties available means low prices, whereas a unique property in a desirable location means a high price. Take your new flat, for ex
ample. It’s in a relatively exclusive arrangement, has a sea view in a popular area. You paid for that.”
“I’m not so sure about exclusive,” protested Gray.
“It’s how the agent marketed it! And take the house you sold. Family-sized, within the catchment area for a raft of very good schools from reception through to Sixth Form. That’s unique and desirable.”
“I take your point.”
Stratham, though, hadn’t finished. “Sometimes an investor may take a gamble, picking up a property in a potentially underappreciated location in the hope it’ll become popular and so drag the valuation up. Brick Lane in London, for example. A couple of decades ago it was full of squats and destitute artists. Now it’s an expensive creative hub. Round here, Margate Old Town is the perfect example. Regenerated by the Turner Contemporary art gallery and on its way up. Clearly, Millstone think there’s money to be made. Given how prices have moved around here recently, I think they’re right. It won’t be long before they recoup their investment. One hundred thousand pounds could seem like a snip.”
“Thanks for the finance lesson, Mister Stratham.”
“There’s plenty more I can tell you!”
Gray hurriedly interjected. “That won’t be necessary; you’ve given me enough to be going on with.”
“My pleasure. The world of property management is a fascinating one. I wish there were more people like you who shared my enthusiasm! Come back if you need to know anything else.”
Gray assured Stratham he would, then rang off. He rubbed his ear where it ached from the battering it had received from Stratham. His mobile rang again.
“Sergeant Gray? It’s Rachel O’Shea. I must speak with you about William Noble’s murder. I can tell you who killed him.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Lighthouse. Please come as soon as you can.” She disconnected.